


the lost art of keeping a secret

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Amnesia, Amnesiac Castiel (Supernatural), Angels, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Fallen Angels, Fluff and Humor, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Sam and Dean are traveling salesmen. Of sorts. It’s just what they’re selling isn’t exactly vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias.Y’see, Sammy’s a psychic with a specific gift that means he can touch any person or object belonging to that person and see into their past.Dean hasn’t got any of that freaky ESP shit, but he does have an excellent sales patter, an eye for logistics, and a can-do attitude.So yeah, maybe it’s ‘psychic prostitution’, but Dean prefers to spin it as a valuable service. Every town they roll into, there are people lining up to find out what’s in their partner’s past, where their daddy ran off to when he went out to get a pack of smokes, whether it was their best friend from kindergarten who stole their grapes at snack time.Reading people, sifting memories: It’s the family business.Their reputation for impeccable, professional service hits an unfortunate snag in the case of one intense, blue-eyed mystery by the name of Emmanuel. That’s it; no second name. Like Cher. Dude apparently can’t remember who he is and Sam can’t find out; the connection isn’t strong enough.Dean, on the other hand? Yeah, Dean felt his and Emmanuel’s connection straight away.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 38
Kudos: 79





	the lost art of keeping a secret

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's probably colossally stupid to start another fic when I have another one on the go, as well as owing a couple of promised ones, BUT this idea would not leave my brain and I wanted to start posting before I talked myself out of it. 
> 
> It's a bit of a departure from my usual stuff and I have never written a multi-chapter fic without smut, so we'll see how that goes (rating may change). I also have no idea how long it's gonna be and what I'm hoping to achieve, so it looks like I'm winging (pause for laughs) it. 
> 
> I'll try to keep updates regular in-between ones for House of Fire (who tf thought 10,000+ word updates every week were a good idea???)

Doing the job that they do, Dean’s been in a lot of homes and seen a lot of awful decor in his time, but this place? Well, it makes the 60s look tasteful. Washed out lime green and wood panels have no place in the twenty-first century. 

Even in small-town USA.

Sam’s upstairs in an equally gaudy bedroom with the wife of a pharmacist, touching her hairbrush (not a euphemism) to find out whether she cheated on her husband back in ‘93. 

Dean’s sitting on the most uncomfortable couch ever - it’s little more than a wooden frame with two uninspiring, crushed-spirit cushions, and he keeps having to shift to find the least lumpy part.

But, there are cocktail weiners. 

The husband glances nervously in the direction of the stairs. The forms have all been filled out and signed, money has exchanged hands, but the guy is still worried that Sam and Dean aren’t the real deal. That it’s all a ruse for these two strapping young(ish) dudes to get their hands on his fifty-something wife.

Dean doesn’t need to be a mind-reader to figure that one out.

He flashes what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he crams in another mini sausage on a stick. 

As Dean chews, he can see the husband working up the courage to ask something. Dean swallows his mouthful, turns his smile up to eleven. 

“Err,” The husband starts, all hand-wringy, already working up a flop sweat, “So what’s actually going on up there? What does all this involve?”

_ ‘Probably shoulda asked that before, pal’ _ isn’t what Dean says aloud, but it’s definitely what he’s thinking. He answers in his best customer service voice, “Well, as I’m sure you saw in the pdf brochure we sent in response to your enquiry email, my brother Sam is a psychic. I guess his main ability is closest to clairvoyance, but it’s a little more complicated than that.”

Just a smidge.

The husband scratches at the balding spot crowning his head. Dean continues, “He, uhh, he just needs an object belonging the person he’s reading--”

The husband interrupts, and before the words are out of his mouth, Dean already knows what the dude is gonna say. Again, not any kind of telepathy, just an understanding of human nature, “--So then why is my wife up there?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. Jeez, this guy is one paranoid motherfucker. “Although he can read with only an object, it always works better with the person themselves. We work missing persons cases where a possession is all we have. It makes it easier and less time-consuming for you and your wife if Sam reads her directly.”

The husband digests the information, nods slowly, “So, he’ll find out what happened at Lollapalooza by what-- touching her forehead or something?”

Ahh, Lollapalooza 1993. Dean bets that was an event to remember. Alice in Chains, Tool, Rage Against the Machine? Perfection.

“Yeah, kinda,” Dean hedges, not wanting to outright lie, but this is a bit of a sticky issue, “Everyone has different, errr, receptive spots. Mostly, it’s the forehead, sure. But not always.”

Dude is about to wind himself up into a frenzy, mind probably coming up with all sorts of scenarios where Sam no doubt takes advantage of his wife, but thankfully Dean hears sasquatch feet on the stairs, heralding the approach of his brother. 

Sam appears in the doorway, damn near filling the entire space, dimples winking and puppy eyes cast downward.

Uh oh. 

So the sly gal cheated, huh? Well, Dean gets it. He’s gotten laid to  _ Parabola _ (the song, not the math thing) before, he can see the appeal of festival sex for sure. 

The wife follows Sam into the lounge, taking a seat on the arm of her husband’s paisley-patterned chair. She bites her lip, but overall, she doesn’t seem particularly worried.

See, that’s the thing. Most sane people (not that he’s calling their clientele insane, but if the electrode cap fits) would never agree to have their memories sifted. Not when they’re guilty as sin of half of the shit Sam and Dean have seen over the years. But if your husband has a nagging doubt that you cheated at a music festival almost thirty years ago and you want to appease him?

Who ya gonna call (or let him call)? 

Fake psychics!

People sign the forms, they pay the money, but until this moment, they don’t  _ really _ believe. After all, 99% of psychics are full of shit. What are the odds that this floppy-haired behemoth is in that 1%?

Pretty damn high as it turns out.

The cushion barely sinks under his brother’s weight as he takes a seat next to Dean. It’s not ‘cause he weighs nothing either - dude is a pretty solidly muscular guy - it’s because the cushions are just that depressed that they can’t sink any fucking lower. 

Sam clasps his hands together, leans forward with his elbows on his knees, “So Mr. and Mrs. Carter, the process is complete.” He turns his attention to the husband - only ‘cause he’s the paying client, not ‘cause Sam is a raging misogynist, “You wanted to know about Mrs. Carter’s activities during Lollapalooza in 1993, correct?”

Mr. Carter reaches for his wife’s hand, “Yes.”

Sam takes a deep breath, “Well, I discovered during the process of sifting through your wife’s memories that she had a sexual relationship with a man named Robert Nelson--”

“--What?” The wife splutters, indignant, but there’s heat rising on her cheeks as she makes the full face journey from anger, through disbelief, settling on embarrassment, “How dare you?”

Her husband’s grip tightens around her hand. His entire body is rigid, but there’s a kind of resigned defeat written in the lines of his expression, like he already knew, just needed the confirmation, “Stop making a scene and let the man finish.”

Sam ducks his head, always embarrassed to be the bearer of all things smut. He reminds the wife, “--You performed oral sex on him and then he finished on your -- your breasts.”

Dean has to fight not to react. Kinky bitch. 

The wife is close to tears, bright red, and lip wobbling, but they paid for it, so Sam’s gotta let them have it. “That was the first time.” Sam says gently, “ _ Babes In Toyland _ were playing on the main stage. There were multiple sexual acts committed over the three-day festival. I can go into them all if you want.”

Both Dean and Sam are silently praying that Mr. and Mrs. Carter don’t want.

God seems to be on their side, because - face an interesting shade of puce that clashes in a traumatic way with the lime green wall behind him - Mr. Carter stands up, brushes himself and his mustard corduroys down. “No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. We will certainly be recommending your services to everyone we know.”

  
  


***

The front door slams behind them and immediately the yelling starts. Dean can just about make out the words,  _ “My boss, Tabitha? You let my boss come on your tits?”  _ and then he’s hurrying after his brother.

“I fucking hate cases like that,” Sam tells him as he stalks off down the pathway, pensive and moody, gravel crunching underfoot. There’s a super creepy frog statue on the garden wall and Dean stares it down as they climb into his beast of a car.

Before Dean starts up the engine, he gestures to the pile of pleas for help on the back seat, “The top one should be our next case. It’s not far from here.”

Sam stretches to reach for the form. Settling back into the bench seat, he starts flipping through the notes as Dean pulls away from the curb. “Thirty-something woman wants us to sift through her best friend and her husband’s memories. Recently, she found out through a mutual friend that her husband had hired her best friend at his bachelor party four years ago.” He flips the page back down. “This is making my head hurt already.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows, “The best friend is a stripper.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness there, “Jeez, Dean. You sure do know how to pick ‘em.”

“Come on,” Dean wheedles as they stop at a light. He holds out his hands like a set of scales, weighing up the options, “If there’s a choice between having a case with or without strippers, we both know the one where hot women take off their clothes is the way forward.”

Sam glances down at the paperwork in his hands, “This one sounds super messy though.”

“Yeah,” Dean concedes, palms curling around the steering wheel again, “So we’ll take an early lunch, get me a burger, you some rabbit food. Then onto the strippers!”

  
  


***

  
  


The unfortunate side-effect of this job is that after seven years, you begin to lose faith in the human race. 

Or more accurately, you  _ continue _ to lose faith in the human race. 

While they do have a fair amount of missing person cases, the vast majority of the ones they take on only reveal the gross underbelly of human behavior. People cheating, sneaking around, committing crimes, and in one memorable case, murder. 

(Luckily, Sam had seen where the guy stashed the weapon, so the police didn’t have to rely only on some ‘con artist mumbo jumbo’).

But alongside the obvious shady shit that people commit and then lie about, clients often try to persuade _ Sam and Dean _ to lie. Usually, it's through bribery, sometimes through threats. They could probably be millionaires by now if Sam wasn’t such a principled stick in the mud. They would most definitely be dead if Dean wasn’t so proficient at kicking ass. 

The stripper case turns out to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions, in the midst of which, the client’s husband corners Dean in the kitchen as he’s getting a glass of water, and offers him money to keep quiet about his five-year affair.

Wow. Even before they were married? 

People don’t believe until they do. Apparently this guy’s not taking any chances. 

Dude’s supposed to be waiting his turn - the best-friend-stripper volunteering to go first to be alone with Sam - and he’s spent the entire last twenty minutes not so subtly fidgeting and sweating in a way that’s left Dean with absolutely no doubt about his guilt, even before the attempt at bribery. 

Dean tells him politely that no, they can’t accept bribes. It would hurt the integrity of what they do. 

Even if what they do is perform a more reliable form of Jerry Springer-style lie detector. Even though he’s secretly eying up the roll of cash the husband keeps waving in his face. Even though he sometimes wishes that people weren’t such assholes. 

Sam catches them in the kitchen and they spring apart like lovers caught by… well, their wives.

Sam’s eyes are already shadowed, so Dean knows. Still, he has to return to the lounge and pretend like he doesn’t. Make small talk. 

It’s the sucky part of Dean’s job. Which admittedly is much less suck-tastic than Sam’s. The poor guy has seen a _ lot  _ and it’s why they impose a two case per day limit. In the beginning, Sam would get overwhelmed by all the images he saw when sifting memories. These days, he knows how to streamline the process, make it so that he can go straight to the specific event he’s searching for, but those first few months were  _ not _ fun. 

It’s one of the reasons Dean pushes these superficial cases. Nothing too mentally scarring here except for the bog-standard horror-awe at all the ways people find to mash their genitals together. 

Still, Dean’s not exactly having the time of his life, sitting and smiling and watching the stripper and the client making small talk, all the while knowing that there are Nixon-levels of deception going on here.

When they tell the wife the news a long twenty minutes later - not only are the best friend and husband having an affair that spans the entirety of the marriage, but the kid that the wife sometimes babysits for the best friend? Yeahhhh, it’s the husband’s - things do not go well.

Sam and Dean leave very quickly to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

They sit in the car, both reeling from that all-around stellar experience.

Sam jerks his chin to the pile in the backseat, “Are there any in there that don’t involve someone sticking their dick in the wrong person?”

There’s a couple, but one in particular stands out to Dean. He’d read it a few days ago and tossed it to one side in favor of a case involving a Clue-style  _ ‘who stole the family heirloom?’  _

(It was the son-in-law).

“Yeah,” Key in the ignition, Dean tells his brother, “Should be four or five forms down. It’s a case about a dude in Colorado. The guy’s name is Emmanuel - he neglected to put down a last name for some reason. Seems like he’s having trouble remembering who he is.” Dean hums to himself, “Maybe he can’t remember his last name.”

At Sam’s  _ look _ , Dean defends himself, “Yeah, yeah I know. We don’t do memory loss cases. But his form was all neatly filled out and I kinda have a weird feeling--” he hastens to clarify, ‘cause Sam is gaping at him like he’s just said that he’s gonna go vegan, “-- but not in a bad way! This one just feels  _ different. _ He’s probably got amnesia or something, so you might not even be able to see anything, I dunno.” Deciding that backtracking is the best option and not at all something a weirdo would do in the current situation, Dean adds, “You know what, don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing. Pretty sure there’s another missing persons in there too. A woman went for a walk after a night out and hasn’t been seen since.” He’s rambling, he knows he is, but can’t seem to stop, “Place your bets: serial killer, aliens, or just sick of her life.”

He gradually runs out of steam and waits in awkward silence while his brother studies him for a few long seconds and then sighs, “Fine. Let’s get our stuff from the motel and then be on our way to wherever it was you said this Emmanuel lives. At least it’ll be a change from this.” He flings a careless hand toward the house they’ve just run from, “Let’s hope this latest one is relatively straightforward and doesn’t turn out to be dick related.”

Dean’s relieved for reasons he doesn’t fully understand, but he smoothly covers it up with a crooked grin, “That’s the dream, Sammy. That’s the dream.”


End file.
